Hounds of Rome Read online

“No, that’s an island that has sunk out of sight. Through the years some low-lying islands have actually disappeared.”

  “Were they developed? You know, houses and stuff?”

  “Yeah. A lot of people want to be right near the water’s edge. But they often lose land during storms, so it’s rocks, steel mesh jetties, anything to hang on. You can buy a half-acre and wind up with a quarter-acre,” Steve said shaking his head. “And in some cases, like that dark patch there, you lose everything.”

  “It sounds like a tragedy.”

  “It may be a tragedy but it’s certainly not a surprise. The Bay is an estuary—a mix of salt water that comes in from the ocean down at the southern end and fresh water from rivers flowing into it mostly from the north. As a result, the shoreline is tidal, active like an ocean front. These people all know it but they keep buying shoreline lots anyway. They wind up paying a big price to have the Bay on their doorstep.”

  A half-hour later, Steve brought the plane down for a smooth landing in an area north of the Bay Bridge that had no small boats. He taxied down the Bay, passing under the Bay Bridge spans and turned into the Severn River.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to go under the bridges.”

  “When I’m on the water, dear heart, I’m a boat just like the rest of the boats.” He pulled up to the dock of the Severn Inn.

  From her vantage point, Janet could see the Naval Academy across the river and the church spires of Annapolis as she sat at a table under an umbrella on the dock. She could feel a light warm breeze as rippling waves came in from the Bay. After double-checking the moorings on the plane, Steve slipped into a seat beside her. It was almost noon. Janet ordered a cocktail.

  “None for me, thanks. I’ll just have a coke.”

  “Going on the wagon?” Janet asked.

  “Not really. My rule is ‘no alcohol when in the cockpit’.”

  “Oh, I never thought of that.”

  “Janet, every time we talk, it always narrows down to me telling my long-winded tales. Never about you. Don’t ask me any questions about myself. You talk. I’ll listen.”

  “There isn’t a lot to tell. I haven’t been educated in Rome like you have; in fact, I’ve never even been to Europe. OK, from the beginning—I was raised in Concord right near where you lived in Wayland.”

  “About you. Only about you. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your name, Tarentino, sounds Italian. Are you Italian?”

  “No, I’m not. My parents live in Concord. I have two brothers, one in New York, one in Boston. Both married with children. I went to Catholic elementary and Catholic high school in Concord. Then to Harvard where I earned my B.A.; then down to Catholic U. for graduate studies in Social Work.”

  “Do you mind my asking about your love life? Got a steady boyfriend?”

  “No boyfriend.”

  “Come on now, you can tell old Father Steve. Haven’t I seen you in the Shrine cafeteria with a young man? And didn’t I see him kiss you a few times?”

  “Is this merely general interest in my morals, Father Steve, or do I detect a note of jealousy?”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “He and I are just friends. Nothing more. He’s gay. The pecks on the cheek are just the way he is. In fact, if you were having lunch with him he’d probably give you a peck on the cheek. I’m sure he’d rather kiss you than me.” Steve Murphy leaned back in his chair. A sense of ease came over him as he stared into her blue eyes. Her loose flowing hair was tousled from the sea breeze. He wanted to run his hands through it. He wanted to….

  “No boyfriend,” she repeated. “I’m married. That’s where the Italian name came from. Actually, I’m mostly Irish. My maiden name is O’Brien.”

  Steve didn’t know why he grew red in the face. It was spontaneous. He couldn’t control it. Somehow the shock of her revelation embarrassed him. His feelings about her began to wane as if a pall had slowly lowered over a lovely statue…gradually concealing it from view. He stared far away, across the river.

  “There’s more to the story,” she said. “We were teenagers. It lasted all of three months. No children. We found out early it was a mistake. We’re officially separated and may have to get a divorce. Looks like the church is going to refuse an annulment.”

  “But you’re Catholic. You can’t get divorced. In the eyes of the church, if the marriage is not annulled, you’ll always be married to him.” Steve heard himself saying this while at the same time he was asking himself why part of him felt better when she said she might be getting divorced. How could a Catholic priest be relieved, almost happy to hear of a couple divorcing? He realized that this train of thought was dangerous. Was he beginning to doubt one of the basic precepts of the church concerning Catholic marriage? “Janet, why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “I knew you had a reputation as a hardliner. I thought what friendship we had would turn into one long sermon.” She knew it was a lie. He wasn’t the type to harangue her about it. What she feared deep down was that it would drive him away.

  He suspected she was not being quite truthful. She surely knew him well enough by then to know that he might comment on something he thought was wrong, while at the same time not abandon his staunch belief in one of the pillars of the Church—free will. He found it curious why she hadn’t mentioned before that she was married. Did she try to cover it up because she was embarrassed? Perhaps she was afraid it might drive him away. He did have thoughts that it might create a distance between them, but he also knew that no matter what, he wanted to go on seeing her. In what had been the vacuum of his life, he realized they had developed a friendship, a kind of bond, perhaps with some early awakening feelings of affection. He could tell by the way she had begun to smile and brighten whenever she saw him, by the lighthearted peck on the cheek she gave him when they met and when they parted. She would furtively glance over her left and right shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then stand on tiptoe and kiss him on the cheek. “Sure ‘n begorrah, and wipe the lipstick off, Father Murphy,” she would say laughing with an imitation brogue.

  As the weeks went by, she continued to brighten his life like no one before. Maybe it wasn’t love, but considering the circumstances, their friendship was the next best thing. It was all they dared to give one another.

  6

  Despite her revelation about being married, they began having lunch together several times a week in the Shrine cafeteria. He slowly became aware that days when he didn’t see her were empty, melancholy. During lunches, they always sat at a table in a corner, deep in conversation. At times, they both burst out laughing then looked around concerned they might have disturbed people near them. No one paid any real attention to them with the exception of an occasional student who knew Janet and sometimes a student in one of his classes. Since the faculty dining room was considered the only socially acceptable place for faculty to lunch, none of the professors or deans saw them.

  His daily solitary Mass in the Crypt Church of the Shrine became a joy, especially on days when he knew he and Janet would be lunching together. It was a thanksgiving, a celebration of life. In his uplifted state of mind, even his nightmares had begun to taper off and lose some of their sting.

  After morning Mass, he frequently visited the Lourdes Grotto in the Crypt Church—a replica of the original grotto where the Virgin appeared to Bernadette. As he knelt in the dark candlelit interior of the grotto his feelings for Janet gradually became entwined with a renewed devotion to Mary, the Blessed Virgin.

  On the walk back to the Dominican House, he often recalled a statement attributed to Norman Vincent Peale, the advocate of positive thinking. Wasn’t it Peale who said that when one door closes, another opens?

  But he couldn’t always shake the melancholy days…days when Steve Murphy was actually frightened that the church door was closing on him. There were times when he was devastated by this feeling. Ever since he had been transferred out of his parish, he had gone over
the possible reasons hundreds of times in his mind without ever coming up with an answer. Was the case against him—he knew there must be some kind of case hidden behind it all—based on supposed excessive alcohol use, or a false accusation of pedophilia, or misuse of church funds, or even some preposterous claim like insubordination? Whatever it was, it was being kept a mystery.

  Whenever these thoughts came, he grew weary and disgusted. His brain ached from reasoning pro and con. It resembled a tense and depressing courtroom drama playing out in his head. He imagined himself on the stand. His hands were clammy. The jury looked somber. The prosecutor shot an arrow: “Are you telling me, Father, that you never abused alcohol?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “What about church funds? How could so much money just disappear?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “You were seen fondling an altar boy. You’ve probably done it dozens of times when no one was looking.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m innocent.”

  Then an apparition would appear. The courtroom would disappear, thank God. Janet, a lovely, beckoning apparition leaning against an open door in the distance. The door was far away. Could he ever reach it? Did he really want to reach it? He knew if he passed through that door there would be no way back.

  As the days went by, he asked himself if he could be falling in love with her. The question was a new one for him because at age forty-eight, he had never been in love with a woman. Not even puppy love in grade school. What was love like? Was this really it? Was it love that made him want to skip instead of walk whenever he thought of Janet? Why did the sky seem bluer, the clouds whiter, people friendlier? But this thing called love had a dark side. In all his adult life, he had always maintained strict discipline. Now he was concerned about losing control. Strange things seemed to be happening in his head. Strange things were happening to his body. When he saw her, his heart beat a bit faster; he noticed a tingling in his loins; something down there that had been dormant now seemed to be coming alive.

  Janet, on the other hand seemed friendly, affectionate in a humorous, companionable way, but always managed to keep him at arm’s length. He wondered if she was more concerned with the risk to his vocation than he was. He wondered if her marriage breakup was her husband’s doing or hers.

  At times, when he thought of the women with whom he had worked in various parish functions and fund drives, he became acutely aware of their selfless devotion to the church. As a result of his feelings for Janet, and his renewed devotion to the Virgin, the legions of downtrodden in the Catholic Church—the women, aroused a new interest, a new significance for him. How poorly they were treated. They were left to clean the priestly vestments, but never to wear them. He had to acknowledge to himself however, that until he met Janet, he had never given it a moment’s thought. Women were destined to play a minor role in the liturgy of the church. It was a matter of church doctrine. The exclusively male clergy was accepted without question; that is, until Vatican II. But In the years following Vatican II, the issue of women priests was pounded into oblivion in the papal encyclicals. At one point, the clergy were even forbidden to discuss it. The best that women could hope for was a role in managing parish affairs, and although the pope was known to disapprove, girls could now serve on the altar during Mass. It was a small concession from the Vatican to the American cardinals and bishops in particular.

  Steve was also well aware of the striking similarities between many practices of the Catholic Church and the ancient Jewish faith from which it had evolved. Some parallels he thought comical, some troubling. One small example always made him laugh: didn’t the pope and the bishops wear yarmulkes just like the Jews? The only difference seemed to be that some were red, some white, some embroidered, while others were simply black. He also wondered about how the Catholic Church evolved the ceremony of the Mass which had its origins in the Last Supper. Wasn’t that meal actually a Jewish Seder commemorating the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt? And when Christ gave his first public sermon at Capharnum, wasn’t it in a synagogue?

  Steve Murphy was well aware that Christianity grew out of the ancient Hebrew faith into what is called ‘The New Testament’, but the parallels nevertheless amazed him. Haven’t the Catholic Church and Jewish orthodoxy both been male dominated from early times? His chosen church seemed to be only one step better than the ancient orthodox synagogues where women were not even permitted on the main floor. Their lot was to watch discreetly from tiny windows high up on the walls that overlooked the bent sea of yarmulke’d praying men far below. The women were relegated to the role of silent observers, never participants. But he recognized that times were changing in the Jewish faith—women rabbis and bas mitzvahs for girls. And he had to admit that the Catholic Church was making a few changes concerning women, although they were minor.

  As Father Murphy crossed Michigan Avenue in front of the Dominican House and entered the front door, he suddenly wondered whether the Catholic Church, his church, was really as superior and unique as he had been taught. But the thought was fleeting and quickly dismissed. He was reminded of the scolding given by the nuns in elementary school who repeatedly told their classes they must accept everything the church teaches without question. The process of lapsing from the one true faith begins with questioning and doubting. He remembered one nun saying: “The road to hell is paved with Catholics who began questioning the tenets of the faith.”

  *****

  Friar Joseph, standing in the doorway to his office, watched Steve as he climbed the stairs to his room. In the past weeks he had seen a distinct change in the priest but was at a loss to know the real reason. He smiled as he heard Father Murphy whistling as he climbed the stairs. Further, he had not for weeks heard Murphy thrashing around in bed calling out in a loud anguished voice that God had deserted him.

  The friar concluded that the Dominican residents had heeded his call to unite in prayer for Murphy, and apparently the combined prayers had produced a wonderful change.

  7

  The Washington Post ran the story on the front page. Beloved Cardinal Wollman, Archbishop of Washington, was dead of a heart attack. The Washington area’s Roman Catholics numbering in the hundreds of thousands were in mourning. Auxiliary Bishop Phillip Rhinehart had been appointed pro-temp by the Vatican to assume the duties as Archbishop of Washington amid strong rumors that he would soon be elevated to the Papal College of Cardinals.

  It had happened suddenly although not unexpectedly. The cardinal was seated at his desk in the chancery. Cardinal Wollman and his auxiliary, Bishop Rhinehart, were in a heated discussion that bordered on a full-blown argument. Red faced, breathing heavily, blood pressure soaring, in the middle of a sentence, the cardinal’s head suddenly snapped back leaving his jaw agape. Slumped in his chair, he spoke no more.

  As he leaned over the prelate, Bishop Rhinehart felt a weak erratic pulse and instantly notified the secretary to call for medical assistance. Instinctively, the bishop reached into a side pocket where he always carried the viaticum—a custom that dated back to the year of his ordination. Dipping his fingers in the sacred oil, he made a Sign of the Cross on the dying cardinal’s forehead to begin the sacrament of Extreme Unction. Then, after stripping off the cardinal’s shoes and socks, he anointed each of the senses in succession: eyes, ears, nose and mouth, as well as the limp hands and feet, repeating the prayer, “Through this holy unction and through His most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins thou has committed...”.

  As the final breath left the cardinal’s body, the bishop stood over the figure slumped in the chair. The cardinal’s dead glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling as if searching for a land somewhere above, a land where the cardinal’s long journey would end—up with God and the angels.

  After the funeral, Bishop Rhinehart found he had little time to waste since as the cardinal’s successor, he was inundated with the task of running the archdiocese. However, there was one lingering
matter that deserved priority attention.

  “Your call is ready, Your Grace,” the secretary said on the bishop’s intercom.

  “Bishop Hernandez, I have a favor to ask. I would like to send another priest to the Passion Brothers Monastery, one who has been giving us a great deal of difficulty. Yes, I know you have limited facilities, but I’m sure Brother Berard can find room for one more. Be assured that I will forward funding to cover. Oh yes, everything is under control here in Washington. The cardinal’s sudden death saddened us. I leave for Rome next week. The American cardinals are meeting with the pontiff to discuss matters pertaining to the church here in America. When I return, I look forward to seeing you at the upcoming Synod of Bishops in Washington. Do I have your approval to discuss arrangements for this latest priest directly with Brother Berard? Thank you, and my prayers are with you too.”

  “Brother Berard, this is Bishop Rhinehart calling from the Archdiocese of Washington. Can you hear me? This is a terrible connection. All I hear are squeaks and squawks.”

  “Yes, I can hear you, Your Grace. It’s our telephone. We only have one telephone here at the monastery and it is quite ancient, I’m afraid.”

  “I have spoken to Bishop Hernandez about sending you a priest. Your bishop has given his approval. This priest has been giving us considerable difficulty and we would like to send him to spend some time at the monastery. His name is Stephen Murphy. I’m not at liberty to discuss details of his case at this time. I will forward his file later. For the time being, simply consider him an open-ended resident. No, do not assign him to any therapy group. We are still in the process of finalizing a determination of his aah...condition. Yes, you will receive further instructions by mail. Is this arrangement satisfactory? Good. Many thanks. I would appreciate your having someone meet Father Murphy at the Tucson airport. My secretary will call you with all the details. Thanks again. Yes...remember the Crucified Christ. Yes, of course, I will. We all must.”